The death of the author as a movement in cultural production had a performative bite – given that it was concerned with authority, simply to doubt from a position of economic or authorial power undid some of the power of the author. It’s an anarchist position in literary studies.
In this place rain has fallen forever – a mist, the monsoon downpour and white noise. Then the forest, the edge of a forest where blackbirds call meekly and woodpigeons shelter on the curved branch.
Lightning cracks through everything in vanishingly small moments. And thunder unites.
Spaced along the eternal border are houses, backing on to the woods and in each, the back door is open and swings slowly since the wind is slow. Raindrops fleck the glass, and wet the mat.
In the centre of each garden, one of the risen stands, staring into the swaying woods which shifts with the intensity of the rain. It is warm, and their clothes are wet. They never look away. They want nothing except to continue to look. This they are granted.
The lord’s prayer dances on their lips, but it changes nothing, and means nothing. Still they call it, whisper it, softly. Its sound is completely lost in the rain.
They seem still, and at peace. And they might be
The problem is that things just aren’t
rational. Words become less real
the longer time drags on. The long
day and night cycle is looser
at every moment. Ignoring
the background static the trolls, death
the concept of evil and more,
Love came at me across the nine
heavens. A miracle, fashioned
just for me. A real perfection,
numbers, herald of the motion
of the heavenly spheres, said no
one, ever. The chaste vibrations
of the universe continue
to deny allegations of
insidious intent. Mostly
by refusing to comment more
even when pressed up against by
hordes of fallen angels. Never
mind – this sorrow produces verse,
laments, the pulp fiction of our
human poetic sphere. Pain just
whips across the page. Give me more!
It’s what sells, darling, it’s what sells!